What If?
by Nemo-xo
Summary: What if there was no lie, nothing wrong, nothing right? What if there was no time, and no reason, or rhyme? What if you should decide that you don't want me there by your side? What if The Doctor left Amy Pond once more to live a grey little life in a universe that she didn't belong in?
1. Micro Cuts

John sat in the cab with Sherlock, in his usual apparently necessary silence. A murder, man and a woman, married, living in a house in London. Apparently it was... Grotesque. He felt a sense of dread surrounding this case, and Sherlock had descended into his silent thought processes already, so no reassurance there. If there would ever be any reassurance from Sherlock, that is. He gave up thinking about the case, it was frustrating him some how, giving him a head ache. Staring out of the window, he glazed over and tried to forget about it until necessary.

He could swear to god that there was something flying in the sky, but not a plane, no. It looked just like a black dot. He stared at it, and his eyes went funny, maybe he was imagining things. Letting the stress get to him. Calm down, John, it's only a case like all the others, just relax.

They pulled up outside the flat, Sherlock bounding in through the front door before John was even out of the car properly. Always like this, he thought. He headed up the steps, passing Anderson's glare as he walked in. It was strange, the house had no forced entry, it seemed completely normal. There was a feeling of family as soon as he walked in, and he knew the sense of dread now. Children, they would have had children. Well why not, big house like this, he saw a collection of toys nearly spilling out of the cupboard under the stairs in the hall. A few building blocks, a race car, a very much abused action man missing an arm. A boy, most likely. Sherlock appeared from the next room, his face looking grave. This was strange, even Anderson was picking up on it, he looked questioningly at the consulting detective. Sherlock caught John's eye, staring at the toys on the floor.

"No sign. But, two boys, one seven and one five. The father is in the kitchen, he seems to have died while reading the paper, the mother upstairs, died while drying her hair." he paused for a few brief seconds, something he didn't do often. "John, I think you need to take a look at them."

John nodded, following him into the kitchen. He braced himself for blood, carnage, all matter of disturbing things he could think of... But no splattered red came into view. The room was clean, untouched, nothing moved at all. The man still sat upright in his chair, his back to them. A shock of brown hair, messy and slightly spiked. A thin frame, very thin, all arms and legs and very tall. John walked cautiously to the other side of the table, not disturbing anything. He then jumped, startled at what had happened to the face. A gas mask, there, on the face, the black glass over the eyes staring at him like those of a monster.

"Sherlock, what ar-"

"Right! Got ourselves a crime scene! Ooooh, interesting!"

And at that moment a man bounded in, a brilliant smile on his face and a girl wandering in behind him. A tweed jacket, bow tie, all in general shades of brown. Ordinary, yet very odd. As soon as he saw Sherlock, his smile disappeared.  
"Oh my..." he muttered, wide eyed, running a hand through his messy brown hair. The woman, she stopped, her face falling too as she saw the poor man's body at the kitchen table. John felt the need to smile reassuringly at her, but she just stared back, tapping the stranger on the shoulder.

"Doctor, what is it?" she muttered, tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear.  
"I think you've got another fan." John said quietly, Sherlock nodding and rolling his eyes as he further investigated. About to check the mask, finger tips just milimetres away, the stranger jumped to life again.

"STOP. No, that's bad, very bad. They're infectious. Don't touch them. Unfortunately any one who's already touched them is dead, unless we can find the capsule, obviously."  
Sherlock did as he was told, which was odd, and he stared at the stranger, puzzled.

"Who are you?" he asked, frowning in disbelief at how this stranger knew more than he did. It annoyed him a little, as all people who seemingly knew more than he did annoyed him.

"I'm The Doctor, and you all need to get out, now. Quarantine the people who've touched the bodies. All of you out, you too Pondy." he said plainly, glancing at the red head.

"Doctor, what's going on?" she asked once more, her brow furrowing in frustration as she folded her arms. She questioned him, she felt annoyance at him. Sherlock's eyebrows raised, slightly amused at her.

"Um, Pond, this is Sherlock Holmes, that is John Watson, and you all need to get out before you start calling for your mothers."


	2. Blackout

AMY

I sat out on the pavement, waiting for him to stop messing about in the house. Alternate universes. Well, nothing new there. But how well, alternate this was was a bit hard to handle. I was sat on the side of the road drinking tea from a polystyrene cup with John Watson. A fictional character. Well, supposedly. Police tape had been added to the perimeter of the house now, not just the entrances. This was so unexplainably surreal that I decided to just go with it. He seemed a decent bloke, for a supposedly fictional character. Knew how to make a bloody good cup of tea any way.

"So..." he muttered, "Time travel?"

"Yeah, and space. So we can go any where, at any time." I replied, staring at the pattern of his jumper before looking up at him. Slight frown, he didn't believe me. I stared out into the road, the view of the houses across the street broken up by Sherlock pacing the street impatiently.

"We're from an alternate universe, in this one I might not even exist, in this one I might even have existed in a different time."  
Another sip of tea, still frowning. Whether with skepticism or confusion, I couldn't really work out. He faltered before asking, but then said,

"So, in your... universe... Do you know what I am, what happened to me? Or Sherlock?"  
I smiled to myself. How do you tell some one that they're fictional?

"In ours, we're pretty sure you're only a fictional character, you may have actually existed but I don't actually know, you and Sherlock are characters in books."

"Oh."  
He looked up at Sherlock, as I did, and then asked,

"Any ideas?"  
Sherlock didn't stop pacing, just shouted up and down the street. It seemed humorous to me, John seemed used to it.

"Only that these people are actually clinically insane."

I have to admit, I hadn't even read Sherlock Holmes as a kid, but I had the image in my head of an educated victorian gentleman in his late fifties. Sherlock Holmes in this universe, how ever, seemed to be a 30-something grump who badly needed a hair cut. Well, you can't have everything.

~

The Doctor wandered about the house, inspecting every inch, leaving no possibility for the poor souls to get up and start calling for their mothers. This was strictly related to World War 2, how was it getting in here? It was irrational, strange, it shouldn't work. Nancy wasn't alive here. Jamie wasn't alive here. There should be nothing to bring the plague to present day London. He was baffled. But not letting any one else know that of course, he was the intergalactic fountain of knowledge.

He headed upstairs, found the children in their room. He eventually decided to lock the door with sonic, knowing that it would be enough to keep them there for now. He didn't look at them for long, peering around the door. One sitting on the bed, a book now hanging limply in it's hand. The other sat on the floor, surrounded by generic toys, both at peace with the world yet taken by the sinister plague that had altered their faces. As he closed to door he nearly woke them, knocking a small red bicycle to the floor. The metal crashed into the wooden floor, and the boys stirred, but neither woke.

Taking a deep breath, he then headed back down stairs to the kitchen, quickly but quietly. The father, sat at the kitchen table, newspaper limply in hand. Left over chips on a plate, now cold and the grease congealing on the paper. Tea left stone cold in a mug near the left hand. The mug was large, white, lettering on it in various colours. When he took a closer look, it read "BEST DAD IN THE WORLD", and he had to choke back his emotions. It wasn't often that The Doctor lost his composure, but here he found himself willed to tears.

He blinked them back, a deep breath, continuing as he started. Checked the back door, it was locked. He double locked it with the sonic, nearly planting his foot in the bowl of water left for a dog. The dog would have scarpered by now, and he picked it up, leaving the bowl on the kitchen counter. Arthur, it read. He smiled to himself. Good name for a dog. Better name for a horse. He thought he recognised the thin, wiry frame of the man, but cast it out of his mind as he in turn locked the kitchen door.

Now, the mother. Treading quietly up the stairs, he found her in the bedroom, sat at the small dressing table, lying forward over the table as if she were asleep. The glaring mask looked oddly in place on her face, as if he had seen this before. A pair of black rimmed glasses on the wooden surface beneath her hand. A key on a chain next to it, the chain old and slightly discoloured but the key shiny and new. He glanced around the room, no other entrances. The open wardrobe caught his eye, and he wondered if the dog had hidden here. He peered inside, finding no animal, but when he found what hung there he felt the colour drain from his face.

A blue pinstripe suit, next to it a pair of old red converse shoes. A suit and shoes that were his. Or, they had been. Before they were borrowed.

He glanced back at the sleeping mother, a feeling of sickening dread creeping up on him as he imagined her face there, beneath the dark mask. It was her. This time he couldn't save her. He couldn't even talk to her. He couldn't even touch her. All he could do was lock the door as Rose Tyler died again, along with himself, along with their children. Lock the door and walk away.


	3. Map Of The Problematique

I watched the water vapour from my mug of tea condense on the window pane. Another sigh escaping as I stared at the darkening skyline, hoping for him to reappear any moment so that I could go home. Well, home was the Tardis. I felt rather lost, alone with out the Doctor. I tried not being a wimp but well, he'd left me in a parallel universe where I could be living around the corner from myself. And I wasn't in much hurry to pay her a visit. The universe would explode, wouldn't it?

I wondered if I even knew the Doctor here. If the alternate me had any knowledge of him at all. The thought made me worry. Just the image of my room and all it's raggedy Doctor things, gone and never existent as a child. I didn't like it one bit. A sudden sinking feeling in my bones as I stared out at the misty grey streets, the cup of tea slowly burning my pale fingers.

"Are you all right?" John asked quietly, and I was suddenly taken out of my little thinking space, nearly dropping the cup. Tea sloshed down my blue t shirt. It soaked through as I was quickly handed a checked tea towel. The spilled tea was hardly anything to cry about, but I felt an overwhelming sense of despair in the current situation, and I found myself trying not to burst into tears.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, here, wait, let me just..." and he quickly disappeared off into another room in their Tardis of a flat. It looked tiny, yet the volume of things that it contained was enormous. Everything in various shades of brown. I quite liked it, it felt like a home, rather than the Tardis, all rooms with furniture but no meaning. I stared around my surroundings until John returned, and he brought with him a pale blue shirt.

"Here, you can go in the bathroom, I'll put your t shirt in the wash tonight." he smiled apologetically, gesturing to the nearest door. I still thought John Watson was a nice bloke, I don't think that will ever change. I went into the bathroom, closing the door behind me and peering at myself in the mirror. Oh, Amy Pond. You misery guts. At least you're not stuck on an alien planet and you're with sane people. I then glanced into the bath and wondered at my last thought. I didn't know what the hell it was, it looked like rotting fruit. I decided not to ask.

I peeled the sticky blue t shirt off, and pulled on the shirt. The sleeves were much too long, so I rolled them up about my elbows. I wondered who's it was. It wasn't John's, the sleeves were too long even for him. It must have been Sherlock's. I headed back out, and John took my t shirt from me.

"John, why is she wearing my shirt?" he asked, hiding in a corner, it seemed. He was curled up in a chair, reading a book quickly. Sherlock Holmes, possibly this universe's version of Oscar the Grouch.

"Because there was an accident concerning tea." he answered, "And Sherlock, be nice." he added on as an after thought. Sherlock looked up at John from his book, rolling his eyes momentarily. He glanced at me, and I sent an apologetic smile. I had nothing to apologise for, but it would get me on his good side. He reluctantly smiled back before returning to flicking through his book.

"Any ideas yet?" John asked, and flipped open the laptop that was on the desk, and started typing. A cup of tea took up it's seemingly usual place to the right of the laptop accompanied by two jammy dodgers.

"Is that mad man with the police box coming back any time soon?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his book. I sat next to John at the desk, preferring his company to Sherlock's.  
I gave no answer for a few moments. You'll have to tell them some time, Amy.

"He does this some times. He tries to fix things. Some times he doesn't come back for a while." I said quietly, an aching feeling in my throat at the words. He didn't mean to be unreliable, but he was uncontrollably so.

"How long is this 'while'?" he sighed, his deep voice refusing to hide his disapproval.

"The last time, it was twelve years."


	4. Unnatural Selection

I stumbled into the flat, my bag hanging off my tired arm as I kicked my shoes off and threw them on the rack. Sinking down into the chair, I ignored Sherlock's activities in the kitchen because it would be likely I'd clean up the mess from his latest "experiment". I couldn't deal with that today. I dosed there quietly, not even taking off my jacket.

It had been two months.

Today I'd started a job at Speedy's cleaning tables and doing odd jobs. It didn't pay much but it helped John and Sherlock with the rent. I knew I couldn't stay at 221B for ever, but while I was still there I'd pay my way. I'd gone looking for a flat of my own with John, but all of the places around here were too expensive for me to afford on my own, so I was relegated back to the sofa in the poky flat. As I sat there I promised I'd start saving so that I could, in the event of me staying here even longer, get somewhere to live by myself.

The house that those poor dead souls had lived in was now boarded up, no sign of The Doctor. Two or three times a week, I'd visited the street. But as weeks became a month, I slowly gave up. I hadn't been there in nearly a fortnight. The house itself gave me the creeps, so I stayed away from it, sitting on the other side of the street and just staring.

I felt as if this was giving up. Searching for a permanent residence, getting a job. But I felt a strange sense of happiness when I sat here, late at night, pinching one of Sherlock's books to read and falling asleep on the couch talking to John. He told me about things, about cases and Sherlock and the little things he did that made us both wonder what on earth went on in his head. We were in the similar position of being the simpleton next to the genius. We could make fun of them over breakfast and point out their faults. I found both Holmes and Watson endearing, but preferred the latter's company as he was more understanding rather than analytical.

"Amelia..." Sherlock called from the kitchen, a sense of questioning in his voice. I wondered what he'd clogged the sink with this time.

"Sherlock." I answered, blinking sleep away from my eyes.

"Would you be able to help me later?" he called, still not leaving the kitchen. I frowned faintly, peering in his direction out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock only asked for help when it came to cleaning up or getting an idiot's perspective.

"What with?"

He didn't answer for a moment, silence from the kitchen as I finally threw off the black jacket I wore, using it as a pillow as I curled up on the sofa. He was thinking. Then silence broke.

"I want to ask you about the parallels."

Silence again. A loud bang, something splattering over the floor.

"And also cleaning the kitchen, but that was an after thought."

As I sat eating toast with Sherlock in the now clean kitchen, John came home. He looked mildly surprised as we talked seemingly as friends. All an act to ensure John didn't get mad at either of us for the large scorch marks now out of sight under the moved table. The floor boards blackened, we couldn't do much about it. Be nice to each other, it'll freak him out to the point he won't notice until we're safely not accountable via an excuse from Sherlock.

"Hey..." he frowned, wandering in, staring with absolute confusion. I looked up at him, smiling. As did Sherlock. He seemed to stare suspiciously for a moment longer, and then sat down at the table next to me, grabbing an empty cup from the sink and pouring himself some tea. Sherlock wandered off out of the kitchen, his smile nearly breaking into laughter. It wasn't often he'd been able to hide wrecking the flat from John, but he found great enjoyment in getting away with it.

I stared down at my cup of tea. Being honest, you were never with out a cup of tea in 221B, it was a habit now. I looked at my own reflection on the surface of the liquid, steam rising and swirling. I was brought back out of my little day dream by John muttering something.

"Hm?"

"I was just wondering..." he coughed, "If you'd like to go out tonight. With, well, me."

I paused in surprise, my mouth set in a little "o" shape as I thought about it. I then remembered my promise to Sherlock.

"I told Sherlock I'd help him to tonight, actually. Sorry."

And with that, I unintentionally totally rejected John Watson. He never asked me out again.


	5. Ruled By Secrecy

"Where are you from?" he questioned, sat at the other side of the desk. This was turning more into an interrogation by the minute.

"Leadworth." I muttered. "Well, not originally but I call it home." I bit into the shiny red apple, he looked up at me at the sound. It annoyed him, I could tell. So I continued.

"Parents?" Sherlock continued, his stare intense and wondering. I stared back, wondering if he'd ever had some one fill the air full of questions and all of them hard to answer.

"They disappeared. Through a crack in my bedroom wall. A crack in time. It's hard to explain, I can't really do it myself. You'd have to ask The Doctor." I curled up in the chair, my knees brought up to my chest as I hugged my legs. Another crunch from the apple. It seemed to unnerve him, which I found odd. Not much unnerved Sherlock, that was a fact.

"How did you get here, through to this 'parallel universe'?" His deep voice was concentrating now, posing the questions more delicately as if in a silent plea to stop me eating the damn apple. It gleamed red as I turned it over in my hand.

"The Tardis. It's a time machine. It also works space. So we can go any where, in any time. It's unreliable, though. It gets things wrong some times. Doesn't come back at the right place or time."

"So you exist in this universe twice?"

"I don't know, google me. Ask Greg to look it up."

He stared at me for a moment, possibly wondering whether to believe me. I was bored with this now, and seeing my mother's face in my mind made me look down at the half eaten apple and suddenly feel sick. I decided to turn the tables now. I was asking the questions.

"Crunching apples. Freaks you out, doesn't it?" I muttered, my voice with an edge to it.

"You seem to have some misplaced dislike of them too." He answered, looking away from my eyes and back down at the desk.

"My mum used to carve smiley faces in them to get me to eat them." I murmured, letting go of very personal information rather quickly here, wondering why it had tumbled out of my mouth, opposite direction to the apple that went in.

"What is The Doctor? Is he from the future?" Sherlock asked, quickly changing the subject, tracing the pattern on the edge of the tea cup in front of him. His eyes didn't meet mine, staring slightly to my left to try and make it look less obvious. Maybe, just maybe, the great Sherlock Holmes had issues too, and well, he didn't seem the type to reveal them. Not to any one, not even John. I returned back to safety and obediently answered questions about the man who'd run away from me.

"He's a nine hundred year old alien part of a race of Time Lords from the planet Gallifrey. He has two hearts, a sonic screwdriver and is fond of bow ties. Is that enough information to be going on with?" I said matter-of-factly, looking up at his stare, he seemed speechless for a moment. The silence stretched out as Sherlock obviously struggled to comprehend it. I felt a little smile appear at the corner of my mouth. I'd stopped him in his tracks.

"Yes, I think so." he finally uttered, and left me to eat my apple as he retreated to his room for the night. I bit into it once more, smiling to myself. Well, that was indeed worth passing up a date with John.


End file.
